


Marks and Sparks’ Very Finest Work

by theoldgods



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Christmas, Couch Sex, Dancing, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Harry Hart Lives, Harry as Arthur, Kilts, M/M, Merlahad Secret Santa, Outdoor Sex, Post-Canon, Post-Movie(s), Scotland, Slow Dancing, Snow and Ice, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5386631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Merlin celebrate the first Christmas after V-Day with Merlin's aunt in Inverness, the ugliest Christmas jumper available, and full black-tie Highland regalia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marks and Sparks’ Very Finest Work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fangirlSevera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlSevera/gifts).



> Written for the 2015 Merlahad Secret Santa, as a combination of prompts: "The first time Harry sees Merlin wearing a kilt, especially a full Highland Suit" and "For a joke Harry buys Merlin ugly Christmas jumpers for presents, but somehow (losing bets, some other means) Harry is the one who always ends up wearing them!"
> 
> The endnotes contain links to a couple cultural things mentioned in the fic, just for kicks. I am _not_ Scottish or British, so while I've done my best to Britpick and purge all Americanisms I find/recognize, pointing them or typos in general out here or at [my tumblr](http://theoldgods.tumblr.com) is welcome.
> 
> Happy holidays to all!

Harry grabs the jumper off the shelf at Marks and Spencer while on his way back to his office after lunch, barely checking to ensure that it’s Merlin’s size. As a result, it spends the rest of the day in the bottom drawer of his desk, narrowly avoiding detection when Merlin stops by at 4 to snog Harry against the back wall and ask him how much additional saffron and sherry he wants added to the bisque. After he leaves, Harry throws his feet up on the edge of the desk and palms himself, coming into a tissue as if he were in secondary.

Harry finally deposits the jumper in the back of his closet and digs into the bisque at 10:22, after the evening exploded in an aborted emergency with Lancelot, currently making her way back from Belgrade. Merlin’s glasses glint at Harry from the coffee table as Merlin himself, still trembling with adrenaline from walking Roxy through the dark alleys of Serbia, mouths at Harry’s cock where it’s trapped within his trousers.

“Can this wait?” Harry asks after nearly spilling bisque down his front. Merlin nuzzles closer, pulling at Harry’s zip.

“I need something to do with myself.”

“And I’m starving,” Harry retorts through a mouthful of food, pressing his fingers against the warmth of Merlin’s skull. He hums in appreciation as Merlin falls still, breathing against Harry’s inner thighs, a light, second heartbeat in counterpoint to Harry’s own, which turns ever faster within his chest as the minutes pass and the bisque disappears.

The moment Harry places the empty bowl on the table, Merlin lowers his zip and draws Harry’s cock out through the slit in his pants. Harry spreads his legs as wide as the couch will allow and leans back against the pillows as Merlin kisses the head and drags his tongue along the underside. Harry, moaning, can feel the smirk against his skin.

“I will not be celibate in your aunt’s house,” he whispers, arching back to press his fingertips into the couch arm behind him as Merlin takes him halfway in his mouth. “I don’t care what sort of dragon she thinks herself, it’s Christmas, and I _will_ fuck on Christmas.”

Merlin’s response is to grip his hips and flip him, slowly enough that Harry has time to grumble as he resettles himself on his stomach, pressing his forehead into the nearest pillow. Merlin’s hands are frigid as he pulls down pants and trousers and digs fingers into the heft of Harry’s arse.

“Then you had best be willing to explain to Brìde why you scream so loudly when I eat your arse.” His breath is close enough to set off a tingle in Harry’s balls. Harry exhales against the pillow and pushes his arse up until he meets Merlin’s nose. “You can practice being quiet now.”

Harry bites his tongue as Merlin presses in, thumbs holding him open as his fingers continue to massage. His hips sway and the light tang of blood fills his mouth as he continues to hold his silence beneath Merlin’s attention, fingers scrabbling along pillows and couch arms for any sort of grip for the ten minutes it takes Merlin to work his arse and half-filled cock into a sputtering orgasm.

“Terrible,” Merlin grumbles as Harry, now panting and leaden-eyed against the couch, begins wriggling out of his sweaty dress shirt. The warmth of his body along Harry’s back is soothing, and Harry curls back into it, directing Merlin’s hands to his nipples where they emerge through the thinning fabric of his undershirt. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Harry murmurs into the pillow as Merlin massages his chest. “I’m tired and old and so’s my cock.”

Merlin’s mostly silent laughter reverberates through Harry’s skin. He gently kisses the light spiderweb of scarring around Harry's right forehead. “Meaning you wanked in your office this afternoon.”

“Didn’t know I’d be getting my arse eaten this evening. I thought it would be epididymal hypertension from tomorrow clear to Boxing Day.”

“You were nearly silent.” Merlin groans as Harry opens his mouth to reveal the light specks of blood still on his tongue. “Misbehaving wretch, I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it. Fine. Aunt Brìde wants her poncy nephew around to celebrate how we’re all miraculously still alive? Let Aunt Brìde tremble in awe of her poncy nephew’s man’s vocal chords.”

“I’ll yodel,” Harry decides, smiling as Merlin’s arms tighten around his ribcage. “Better than Julie Andrews. Happy Christmas, Aunt Brìde, enjoy _The Sound of Music: Inverness_.”

Merlin yawns into Harry’s neck. “Worst bit is that she’d love a movie with that title.”

“Deceptive, we are.” Harry slowly sits up, dragging Merlin with him, and gets to his feet, gathering his discarded clothes in the process. “Like a poorly labeled porno. Don’t forget your glasses.”

Merlin falls into bed ten minutes later, glasses hanging from his nose. Harry removes them in the process of organizing for the trip north in the morning and, when Merlin’s breathing slows and deepens, retrieves the jumper from the back shelf and adds it to his own bag, snickering softly.

* * *

Aunt Brìde’s sprawling estate on the outskirts of Inverness is as close as Harry has come to touching what she tells them, within the first five minutes of their stay, is “real Scotland.” (“Brave to pick a fight with Glaswegians,” Merlin mutters into Harry’s ear.) It is nonetheless decorated much the same as any posh house in the London area, festooned with boughs of holly, its main living room centered around a four-meter Douglas fir draped in white fairy lights and gold glass baubles. Harry spies more domestic servants lurking around corners within the first hour of their stay than he experienced in sixteen-odd years of knocking about from one knighted relative to another—not, he has to admit to himself, that London flats have much space for cooks and maids. Brìde herself has surprisingly little to say to her queer wayward nephew and his pseudohusband other than to ask after Merlin’s dogs and enquire as to why Beatha, bought after Harry turned up alive in a Kentucky hospital, is a Yorkie rather than the traditional Campbell black lab.

They spend most of the remainder of Christmas Eve in the sunroom with their tablets and glasses of Scotland’s finest single malt, switching to mulled wine when the sun disappears a little after 3. Brìde herself comes to them at 4:30, casting a quick glance at their intertwined legs. (Merlin slides one hand down the back of Harry’s trousers when she looks away, and Harry presses a hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter.)

“The meal is at seven,” she informs them. “I have Highland dress for you, Teàrlach, if you will wear it.” Harry cannot help but snort, leaning into Merlin’s warning squeeze of his inner thigh; Brìde raises an eyebrow. “You do not appreciate Teàrlach in a kilt?”

Harry chokes. Merlin removes his hands, smirking, as he accepts Brìde’s offer.

When they do head up to their room to change it’s to find a long garment bag on the bed. Merlin whisks it up before Harry can check, literally waving a finger in his face.

“I think I’ll dress in the bath, keep your nosy arse out of it and all.”

“Teàrlach,” Harry teases, reaching for his hand, “Bonny Teàrlach, please—”

He’s left to dress alone, changing into his tuxedo as deftly as he can considering how his hands are trembling with what seems to be a mixture of anticipation and lust. He’s just reached for the cologne when Merlin reemerges, hands on hips, and Harry audibly inhales.

Merlin has legally been Teàrlach Campbell, son of a son of a son of Highlanders, his entire life, long even compared to his time as Kingsman’s Merlin. He is nonetheless always Merlin to Kingsman personnel—even during the weeks he had been an interim Arthur, before Harry recovered enough to inherit that dubious honor—and Charles to civilians, at times Bonnie Charlie to those in a jesting mood. (Harry has on more than one occasion sung “Will ye no’ come back again?” in his worst Scots, earning him some of Merlin’s most forceful arse pinches.) To Harry, Merlin is Kingsman first, mostly a Scot insofar as he is a gruff accent that vibrates through comms or Harry’s cock, as required.

This is thus the first time, in twenty-odd years of friendship and fucking, that Harry has ever seen him in full Highland dress, and his eyes hardly know where to look first.

A kilt is not new—Merlin has been coaxed into them on several occasions over the years, often with the promise of Harry’s mouth afterward. The deep greens and blues of the Campbell tartan nonetheless look beautiful against his legs, hidden as they are beneath white hose, and Harry smiles briefly thinking of what hides within (or beneath) Merlin’s sporran. The black jacket that narrows to his waist, framing his broad shoulders perfectly, is newer and more exciting, vaguely familiar formal trappings—white dress shirt, black waistcoat, black jacket—repurposed so as to send a shiver down Harry’s spine.

“It occurred to me that the sgian dubh could be useful for work,” Merlin tells him, patting the knife handle peering out of the top of his hose, as Harry continues to stare. “Pity we’ve little use for Highland regalia.”

Harry approaches him and runs a hand along the small of Merlin’s back, closing his eyes in delight. “Will it protect me from an assassination attempt?”

Merlin places one of Harry’s hands on the handle, shivering as Harry runs fingertips along both the handle and Merlin’s exposed knees. “Who’s going to assassinate you tonight, Arthur darling?”

“Too late, I’ve already died,” Harry whispers, burying his face against Merlin’s shoulder as he slides his hand up under the kilt. Merlin cups his arse in return.

“Dramatic, and still missing my tie and your cologne, I gather.”

Harry lifts the kilt and brushes Merlin’s exposed cock before turning away. “You meet regimental standards, Private Campbell.” As Merlin grumbles, he reaches for the bowtie on the bed and sets it in place around Merlin’s neck. “Protect your king with your large sword.”

“Aye, sire, an’ will ye be addin’ a touch o’ scent, sire milaird, so’s not tae smell?”

“Teàrlach, please,” Harry replies in the primmest voice he has, reaching for the cologne bottle. “Do not insult me so.” He adds a dab behind Merlin’s ear with a light slap before turning the cologne on himself. “I am fresh as a daisy and twice as pretty.”

Merlin squeezes his waist, enveloping both of them in his own pine-tinged cologne. Harry breathes in the scents of woods and spice mingling where they touch.

“My most beautiful King Arthur.” Merlin kisses his hairline until Harry feels his knees begin to weaken. “I will protect you with sgian dubh and with sword.” The mass against Harry’s back is likely the sporran and not his cock, but Harry tilts his head back until their lips meet, wriggling back between Merlin’s legs. “You’ll see as soon as Brìde lets us up from the table.”

* * *

It actually takes twenty minutes after dessert and coffee, once the other guests have left, for Harry to end up in Merlin’s lap in the garden, wrapping his legs around Merlin’s waist as Merlin leans back against the pondside bench. Merlin’s lips trail down Harry’s neck and chest as his fingers undo button after button. His breath is particularly warm against the barely above freezing air around them, and Harry’s skin prickles with the temperature contrast, with the lust that Merlin always is, and with the gentle crackling beneath them as Merlin’s brogues slip back and forth on the snowpack.

Harry trains his own attention on Merlin’s waist, unbuttoning the waistcoat and sliding his hands down Merlin’s back as he pulls the shirttails free. Merlin shifts, rubbing his nose along the underside of Harry’s chin, and Harry squeezes the flesh beneath his hands as his own breath seems to freeze in his lungs. He reaches for the buckles of the kilt, cursing softly as he comes into contact with the icy metal.

“Dolt,” Merlin whispers, shifting again to press one of his hands against Harry’s and direct him toward the bottom edge of the kilt. “Just—up—”

Harry obeys, abandoning the buckles and flipping the kilt up to get a hand around Merlin’s cock. Merlin swears and leans back, the muscles in his thighs flexing beneath Harry’s weight as Harry begins to pull gently at his cock.

“Your hands are freezing.”

Harry grunts and fumbles with one hand at his own fly. “A little help—”

Merlin unbuttons and unzips, drawing him out with his own chilled hand as Harry hisses. Harry stops for a moment to nuzzle Merlin’s neck, allowing temperatures between hands and cocks to equalize. The angle means that Merlin’s kilt brushes up against Harry’s chin, but Harry is both cold and desperate enough to welcome the opportunities to burrow up against more skin and fabric as Merlin takes both their cocks in his hands and tosses them off in unison.

“We can’t get come on this dress regalia,” Merlin murmurs, flicking at Harry’s frenulum while Harry moans and exhales against his neck. “So tell me before.”

“We’re fucking morons.” Harry rolls his hips from side to side in Merlin’s lap as pressure continues to mount below his belt. “‘Oi, mate, we’ve a whole warm house, so why not let’s jerk it in the garden,’ that’s the sort of brilliance we’re working with here.”

“It’s Christmas.” Merlin grips Harry’s balls, his words drifting to the back of Harry’s mind as he swims under a fresh onslaught of lust. “Snow and pretty twinkly fairy lights, this’s the spirit—”

Harry feels his cock twitch and leans away, very nearly unseating himself completely from Merlin’s lap. He pants, arse half hanging in the air, as Merlin stills his stroking and transfers one hand to Harry’s thigh to hold him in place.

“All right, Your Majesty?”

“I’m only thinking of Brìde’s laundering bills.” Harry lowers his legs until his feet hit the snow, then stretches back and lets Merlin wrap an arm around his waist as he dips until his head hovers only inches from the ground. “Selfless.”

Merlin loosens his grip slowly until Harry slides onto the ground and gets to his feet, shaking bits of snow from his hair. He grumbles as he smoothes down his kilt and positions his sporran strategically over the bulge in the fabric. “This will do until I can take you apart someplace where I can actually feel what I’m touching.”

“Aye.” Harry offers an arm and shivers as Merlin grips it and pulls himself off the bench, leaning against Harry’s flank. To their left the cleared ice on the pond glitters in the half light. “Shall we ice dance first, Bonnie Charlie?”

“It’s hardly more than a puddle,” Merlin argues as Harry steers them to its edge. “And it won’t take both our weights.”

“Shall I dance for you, then?” Harry has always loved ice skating, in truth, the sensation of flying without leaving the ground. He steps out onto the ice, keenly aware of the lack of traction his dress shoes offer, and turns to face Merlin, huddled shivering beneath his jacket.

“Come off it, Harry; my balls are halfway inside me and only growing more shrunken the longer you dance.”

“Could’ve worn pants like a decent fellow.” Harry spins, laughing as his left foot twists and nearly sends him sprawling on the ice. “Never knew I was taking up with a harlot.”

“You knew what you were walking into.” Merlin’s voice blurs a bit in the freezing air as Harry slides to the other end of the pond, looking back over the ten or so meters to where Merlin stands. “Come on back before the ice gets tired of you.”

“You don’t want to watch my lithe, balletic limbs?” Harry asks as he begins the slippery steps back to Merlin.

“On the contrary: I’d very much like to watch them somewhere we both have circulation in our dicks.”

Harry’s cheeks burn with the cold and with subdued excitement, bubbling back up to the surface of his skin as he grows ever closer to Merlin. When he is within striking distance, he leaps off the ice, as best as his shoddily gripping shoes will allow, hearing though not processing the squeak beneath him as air rushes past his ears.

Merlin’s eyes widen. “Harry—!”

He lands on the ice and not, as he had hoped, in Merlin’s arms. He has half a moment to process this before something pops like a backfiring car and the ice beneath him falls away.

The pond only has about a meter of water in it, Harry notes as liquid ice rushes around him, his momentum sending him directly to the bottom. It does not take more than two seconds to sit upright and breathe in the frigid night air. Merlin nonetheless grabs his arms almost as soon as he emerges and drags him onto solid ground.

“Shit-arse morons, the pair of us—”

Harry shakes his head to free water from his hair as Merlin removes his own jacket and drapes it over Harry’s shoulders.

“Refreshing,” he murmurs, looking into Merlin’s burning eyes as he continues to curse them both, Brìde and her pond, and the city of Inverness itself.

Merlin kisses him, rough and with a growl at the back of his throat, then pushes hair from Harry’s eyes.

“Can ye not scare me, for one evening?”

Harry shivers with both cold and a growing delight at Merlin’s deepened accent.

“But was my dancing good?” Harry squeals in displeasure as Merlin, laughing, picks him up. “I can still walk! Put me down—” he pounds at Merlin’s back as he drapes him across his shoulder “—Put me—”

“An’ let ye break an’ ankle or worse, after the bluidy hell ye've already put me through this year?” Merlin swallows, clearing his throat and his accent as he tightens his grip on Harry and slides one hand through his hair, massaging his skull. “Shh, mo chridhe. Be still and let me take care of you.”

Harry is too cold to complain further by the time they reach their room and Merlin strips him of his wet things. The moment he’s nude he collapses onto the bed and watches as Merlin drapes the clothes over the chairs in the room before removing his waistcoat and shirt, dampened by contact with Harry. As a result, Merlin is wearing only his kilt and hose as he searches the room for something to wrap Harry in, and Harry blocks out his stream of muttered questions in favor of watching the muscles in his chest ripple with each movement.

“Ah, good, you did pack—”

Harry focuses on Merlin’s face at that, though it takes him a moment to connect Merlin’s confused expression and the half-open package he holds in his hands, pulled from Harry’s bag.

“Shit.” Harry sits up. “That’s just a—”

Merlin’s laugh as he removes the rest of the tissue paper drowns out the rest of his sentence. “Is this for me?”

“Maybe.” Harry attempts to subdue his tired, nearly drunken smile. “Try it on.”

In Merlin’s hands the green knit jumper looks particularly foolish, its cartoonish white snowman centerpiece stretched across the rest of the material while a red applique scarf dangles several centimeters into the air.

“Where in hell did you find this? Is that a carrot nose or a gob of shit?”

“Can’t it be both?” Harry rolls onto his stomach. “That’s Marks and Sparks’ very finest work you hold in your hands and also your Christmas present, so go careful.”

Merlin strokes the applique scarf. “Bloody hell, Harry, this might be the worst present I’ve received in the last decade.”

“I couldn’t figure out how to get the shop to make something bespoke and suitably horrible, so I hope you’ll take off the rack.”

“If I must. Alas, I think you’ll be the one breaking it in.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I’ll use the bed, thanks.” To prove his sincerity he lifts the nearest corner of the duvet and tosses it lightly over his back. “Toasty.”

“A valiant effort,” Merlin says as he approaches the bed, jumper outstretched. “Put this on before you catch hypothermia.”

“How about a shower?” Harry lurches off the bed and starts for the bath. “A nice hot shower, that will be—”

Merlin shoves the jumper over Harry’s head despite his muffled yelps.

“Oh, hush. I don’t want to waste Brìde’s patience on you being a dolt.” Merlin continues to push, ignoring Harry’s grumbles, until Harry’s head reemerges, and then pulls on the bottom to straighten it. The jumper is slightly overwide, its shoulders meant more for Merlin’s than Harry’s, but it hangs almost to Harry’s hips nonetheless. “Save it for the ravishing I’ll give you and Mister Frosty. How’s that, warm?”

“Itchy.” Harry scratches at his stomach. “Jumpers on bare skin are always miserable, Merlin, you know that.”

“Shouldn’t’ve fallen in the pond and left this your only option, then, mate.” Merlin clasps his shoulder and stands back to appreciate the view. “Yes, this is precisely the gentleman I love most. Here, where’s my phone—”

“Fuck no.” Harry attempts to remove the jumper, to be stopped yet again by Merlin’s arms around his stomach. He relinquishes the fight almost immediately, opting instead to pin Merlin’s bare chest against him. “Stay, and itch yourself.”

Merlin shifts, one hand reaching for his mobile on the vanity. As Harry watches, he fumbles with the touch screen for several moments, eventually dropping it back on the table as tinny music emerges from its speaker.

“When the bells all ring and the horns all blow, and the couples we know are fondly kissing…”

Harry gives into Ella Fitzgerald’s voice, allowing Merlin to set the lead in a slow waltz.

“Will I be with you,” Merlin whisper-sings into his ear in time with her, tightening his grip on Harry’s waist, “or will I be among the missing?”

His lips tingle, from cold or the remnants of their peppermint ice cream dessert, beneath Harry’s as Harry slots their mouths together. Merlin rests his cheek in Harry’s palm, eyes closing in a soft flutter.

“The jackpot question in advance,” Harry murmurs into Merlin’s open mouth, as they turn to avoid the end of the room and start back toward the bed. “What are you doing Christmas Eve, Teàrlach?”

Merlin burrows his head against Harry’s neck, tongue prodding the moisture on his skin. “A bit late to be ‘in advance,’ Henry.”

“Tardy again.” Harry mouths Merlin’s head for several moments, breathing in the remnants of his cologne and the tang of frost and pond. “Thank you.” Merlin hums and slides them closer together, more a slow grind than a proper dance.

“I’d like to claim you for New Year’s,” Merlin whispers over the trumpet solo as they linger at the foot of the bed, digging his fingers into Harry’s arse. “And the rest of forever, if you aren’t too busy.”

“If international politics and megalomaniacs allow.” Harry slides a hand underneath Merlin’s kilt. “The usual.”

Merlin opens his legs further and tilts them both onto the duvet as the last bars of the song fade and silence falls, reaching into the drawer of the bedside table for a bottle of lube. Harry positions himself on top of Merlin, taking care to let his jumper rub against Merlin’s bare chest, and begins working on the kilt’s buckles as Merlin massages his inner thighs.

“Can’t concentrate when you do that,” Harry murmurs as a spasm runs through his lower body. “This is tough work.”

One of Merlin’s hands tweaks a nipple, causing Harry to properly curse and arch back from the touch. “Maybe you don’t need to.” He removes his other hand from Harry’s legs and helps pull at the buckles, overtaking Harry’s meandering grasp and unwrapping the tartan folds. He sighs as Harry grips his cock. “That’s about right where you belong.”

“And the same to you,” Harry retorts, placing one of Merlin’s hands back on his thigh.

It isn’t long before Harry removes the jumper, flinging it onto the bed alongside them, and presses his body down fully against Merlin’s, slotting their hips together and dragging one cock along the other. He leaves just enough room for their hands in between their torsos and then curls his head in alongside Merlin’s, nibbling an ear as Merlin coats his hands in lube and masturbates them both in time to the slow undulations of Harry’s body against his.

“Do you want in?”

Merlin slides a slick finger back toward Harry’s opening. “Do you _want_ me in?”

Harry slips himself onto Merlin’s proffered finger. “This is perfect. Just...this.”

Rutting slowly against one another, as Merlin fingers Harry’s arse, is a relatively gentle way to come, all things considered. Harry reaches to slide his own hand into Merlin, but Merlin pulls him away, with a sloppy kiss added to take any sting out of it, whispering, “No, you.” Harry heads for a nipple instead and smiles as Merlin writhes.

“Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

Merlin brushes against his prostate, leaving Harry moaning as he replies, “Better than.”

“Maybe Charlie was all right with the arse.” Harry’s mouth moves mostly independently of his thought as increasing amounts of fog settle over his brain with each minute they spend fucking.

“Not as good as me.” Merlin’s fingers are broad and supple, twisting and turning easily in and around Harry’s arse. And he _knows_ , he bloody well knows, exactly how long it will take Harry to come close to release, how to dance around that edge like he’s playing an instrument, even with Harry doing his best to distract him. (His attention to Merlin’s nipples weakens with each piston of Merlin’s forefinger.)

“No,” Harry agrees, and then Merlin grips particularly strongly at his prostate again and the edges of his vision blur, closing his throat with a moan.

“That’s it.” Merlin speaks in a steady stream of half-English, half-Gaelic, drifting alongside the sparks of light and color on the undersides of Harry’s closed eyelids as his muscles begin to seize, and when he massages outward, his spare fingers rubbing Harry’s arse and swooping back up to the hole, Harry lets go in a white whirl, his mouth opening as he presses his forehead into Merlin’s chest to ride out the wave of sensation.

“Aye, Brìde,” Merlin says, removing his fingers from Harry’s arse as he pants against him. “There’s a voice for you.”

“Her room is on the ground floor.” Harry stretches his legs gingerly as they tremble with aftershocks. “Could scream and she wouldn’t hear.”

“Now, Harry, don’t spoil my fun.” Merlin’s hand moves rhythmically between his own thighs, and Harry blurrily reaches out to help, cupping Merlin’s balls and rolling them in his hand as Merlin grunts.

“I _am_ your fun,” Harry reminds him, massaging Merlin’s chest with his free hand. Merlin jolts at the extra touch, legs stiffening. “Perfect.” He kisses Merlin’s neck as he comes, muscles rigid, and smiles as Merlin slowly softens once more beneath him.

“You are,” Merlin accepts eventually, kissing Harry’s hair. With a questing hand he lifts the discarded jumper from the duvet and offers it to Harry, who laughs and kicks it to the floor. “Shower?”

They do so together, remaining in physical contact throughout, cleaning each other until sweat, snow, cologne, and pond water are gone beneath the light heather scent of Brìde’s best milled soap. When they return to bed, pink with cleanliness and increasingly silent with exhaustion, Harry scoops up the jumper from the floor and balls it into a pillow, placing it between them. Merlin collapses into it, kissing Harry’s fingers as Harry turns out the lights and presses their foreheads together.

“Happy Christmas, love,” Harry whispers, kissing Merlin’s nose when he looks up from the jumper.

“Nollaig chridheil, mo chridhe.” Merlin drapes one arm of the jumper over Harry’s shoulder and the other over his own.

They smile at one another until their eyes drift closed.

**Author's Note:**

> [Guide to Scottish regimental wear](http://www.blacktieguide.com/Supplemental/Scottish.htm)  
> [The Campbell tartan ("modern" version)](http://www.scotclans.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/Campbell-mod-320.png)  
>  "Bonny Prince Charlie" is [Charles Edward Stuart](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Edward_Stuart)  
> "Will Ye No' Come Back Again?"  
> Teàrlach is, incidentally, [a Gaelic version of Charles](http://www.behindthename.com/name/tea11rlach)  
> The song they dance to is [Ella Fitzgerald's version of "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQfZTPKzRZ0)


End file.
